Icon
by cornwallace
Summary: If you want the rain then we're coming down.
1. Watch me

_ _ _ _ _ _  
Watch me

* * *

 _Bweep._  
"If you destroy the satellite we can go straight for Venom! Be careful, Fox!"  
"I'm on it!"  
 _Bwoop._

* * *

Bolse.  
The last hurrah.

I wouldn't call it but that's just me. Fox McLeod of TEAM STAR FOX.  
It feels a lot of same. Samey. Similar.

Repetitive. Actions and clause because of them.

Okay guys, I say. Destroy all barriers!

We've been deployed. Semper Fidelis.  
"I'll cover you, Fox," Falco says.  
"Aim for the energy towers!" Peppy says  
"You're not getting away that easy!" Slippy says.  
"Your carcass is mine." Slippy says.

Spam the fire button. Turn left. I think the objective is that way.  
Try to turn into a good pattern around the circle. Spam barrel rolls and the fire button, especially when the lock on thingy boops.  
Boops and beeps and mashing buttons. Screen goes red. Rumble! Whoa!

Careful. We only have one life now.

"Time for a little payback!" Falco says.  
"Shoot! He's right behind me!" Falco says.  
"These ships are shielded too!" Slippy says.  
"I won't let you get away from me!" Peppy says.  
"I won't let you get away from me!" Peppy says.  
"Time for a little payback!" Falco says.  
"They don't give up." Slippy says.

Spam the buttons more. I think I blew some shit up. I probably shouldn't have started drinking as early as I did but the past is like the present. What you make up of it.  
I mean.  
What you make of it.

Hit the invisible wall to turn me around.  
Tired. Driven.  
Gotta finish the level.

"Hey Einstein! I'm on your side!" Falco says.  
He probably said that because I shot at him. He says that when I shoot at him.

"What's the big idea?!" Peppy says.  
Peppy also says that when I shoot at him. Maybe I shouldn't spam so much,

"Hoo! That was too close!" Slippy says.  
"Shoot! He's right behind me!" Falco says.

Redirect and press more buttons.

"Hey Einstein! I'm on your side!" Falco says.

Fuck you, buddy.

"Hey!" I say. "The forcefield is disappearing!"  
I didn't say that. My body did. Fascinating.

What can I say? This is who I am.

"Your daddy used to help me like that." Peppy says.  
"What's taking so long, Fox?!" Peppy says.  
"Your daddy used to help me like that, Fox." Peppy says.  
"Hoo! That was too close!" Slippy says.  
"Gee! I was saved by Fox! How SWELL." Falco says.  
"Scratch one bogey." Falco says.  
Falco says "Gee! I was saved by-"  
"Your daddy done helped me in what way you is sometimes from on backwards!" Peppy says.  
"Destroy the satellite core!" Peppy says.  
"Looks like we got some company!" Falco says.

"Play time is over, Star Fox!" Wolf says.  
"Daddy done squealled like a piggy ree reee reeeeee HAHAHAHAHAHAH." Pigma says.  
"I think I'll torture for you awhile." Leon says.  
"UNCLE ANDROSS!" Andrew says.  
"Annoying bird! I am the great Leon!" Leon says.  
"Fox.. Get this guy off me!" Slippy says.  
"What's the big idea?!" Peppy says.  
"Scratch one bogey!" Falco says.  
"Ur dady wan fuk" Pigma says.  
"Aim for the energy towers!" Peppy says.  
"This is really starting to tick me off!' Slippy says.

Keep holding left but now I'm saving up a green orb and spamming less. I try to only shoot when my ball gets a lock on.  
Then I unload.

"Hey! He was mine!" Slippy says.

Sorry. I'm not sorry, really.

"Knock it off, Fox!" Peppy says.  
"Destroy the satellite core!" Peppy says.  
"Knock it off, Fox!" Peppy says.

The only thing I can see, even from this distance is Wolf's eye.  
Just that one he has left.

"Aw, man. I'm gonna have to back off." Falco says.

I am just an icon living.  
I am just an icon.

"You'll be seeing your dad soon, Fox." Wolf says.

"Knock it off, Fox!" Peppy says.  
"Hey! That was mine!" Slippy says.

Falco doesn't say anything because the bird's been canonically temporarily crippled from flight.  
Temporarily.

"Good! I see the enemy core!" Peppy says.  
"This is really starting to tick me off!" Slippy says.  
"Oh no!" Slippy says.  
"Oh no!" Slippy says.  
"Oh no!" Slippy says.  
"Your daddy done dang old done a lot for me, son. Just like what you just did." Peppy says.  
"Your carcass is mine." Slippy says.  
"I won't let you get away from me!" Peppy says.  
"Time for a little payback!" Falco says, despite his lack of presence.

"UNCLE ANDROSS!" Andrew says.  
"I think I'll torture you awhile." Leon says.  
"What the heck!" Wolf says.

Stop spamming barrel roll. I want us both to feel this.  
We play chicken. His eyes locked onto mine.  
Only, he thinks I'm playing chicken.  
But I'm playing for keeps.

The desperate attempt to capture his face forever within the base of my skull is lost on the crash.  
The crash is whiplash and misery. I drag his miserable wolfen down with my arwing into the cement. Spit blood on my nuts. Whatever. Motherfucking Star Fox, baby.

I snap an oxygen straw with my back molar, bag hanging out of my mouth like an infant sucking afterbirth.  
I slap my helmet on my head and buckle together the safety belt. The safety belt always saves.  
I take the crash like a bitchslap to the face.  
I barely even flinch.  
I wish she drew blood so I could lick my lips and grind my dick against the furniture.

There's not enough fluids on my face to lick off of my face to get hard enough.

My wing tears his wolfen's cockpit in half, wrenching his precious pilot seat free of its confines and giving it to nature in alllllll its glory as sparks rain down upon him as what's left of his ship and singe his fur, stench filling his nostrils, embers burning the skin under his fur.  
Metal grinding against concrete devours his screams like god devours tears, or RYAN REYNOLDS devours microwave food with Deadpool on the box.

"UNCLE ANDROSS!" Andrew says.

Fox's communication device gets shoved so far inside his head that his brain can no longer decipher its noises as excruciating pain in the core of his spine anymore.  
I screeched as my fucking soul tore itself apart and ate itself through a pile of used syringes to re-life and rubbed this nut in all my own wounds.

"UNCLE ANDROSS!" Andrew says.

My spine is a conduit for the real thralls of your incompetence, Andrew. In ways you'll never understand.  
My bellybutton is screaming for me when I notice the voice ghost isn't humping my uvula.

I snot red tadpoles onto my knuckles and wipe them off on my breast, under my jacket.  
Some in my armpit.  
We are the pain if you called the rain and we'll come coming down on your face like it's no big deal.  
Undo the safety belt and free myself from the pit of cock. My novelty has expired.

My god pisses acid blood into my asshole without a god condom. Or even an Unholy Hole Magnetic Barrier.  
Vitriol. Venomous argheture.  
The hatch hisses open and slides back after the appropriate button pressage expendiature.  
Hop out, left leg dug into by what ship parts done broke on the inside. Bleeding all over everything and whatnot.  
Limping excitedly towards the crashed Wolfen.

Wolf is still unconscious when Fox reaches his wolfen and tears open the hatch with his bare hands.  
His lead lidded eyes wrench themselves open at the spine shattering sound of the metal grinding against metal and the raining of shards of glass down on his face and shit.

Wolf's jaw hangs open like :V as he stares up at Fox with glazed over eyes.  
He tries to say something. He had something meaningful to say.

"Okay guys!" Fox says, I mean I say. "Destroy all barriers!"  
Fox stomps downward hard into his slack jaw. Cracking some teeth. Knocking others and fragments of others loose downwardly into his throat. Wolf chokes on teeth and coagulated blood later, but not yet. Right now his body just retches and threatens to vomit its way to life.  
"Hey! The forcefield is disappearing!" We say.  
We are Fox, are we not?  
So, we say that. We say it.  
"Star Wolf again?" Fox asks leaving Wolf to choke to death on his own body parts or maybe lack of oxygen because fuck that guy he's bad. "Why now?"  
But he stops himself just short of the body.

Corpses make me think of something hard.  
Er, uh, him. Corpses make him think of something hard.

* * *

cornwallace - 2018


	2. Icon living

_ _ _ _ _ _ _  
Icon living 

* * *

There's a lot that could be said about the state of Corneria, or even the Lylat system for that matter.  
But if you asked Fox McCloud to comment, he'd ask you why even bother?  
Things are shitty, and because things are shitty, he has a job that he enjoys well enough and pays well enough. He was always good at destroying things. And if there's one thing his daddy always taught him, if you do something well, don't do it for free.

There's a lot of things his daddy always taught him. He didn't really like him much when he was alive, but he was right about a lot of things.  
Fox wouldn't tell you the truth about his dad if you asked him. In fact, he'd tell you the opposite. "My daddy was a wonderful man, and that sum'bitch took him from me." He'd say it coldly, too, like he meant it. But it was more of an excuse.

Rationalizing their differences when it came to his hatred for Wolf O'Donnell, it was more their similarities that sickened Fox to his core.

His eyes seem to just pop open, and a blurry familiarity tames itself into a state of clarity.  
His ceiling, his room. He blinks a few times. The spark of a lighter. Her familiar coughing.

A familiar smell curls its way into the air above him in a cloud of smoke. Permeating the room. An intoxicating seduction brings his gaze by the nose downward, first catching her from the corner of his eyes, to bringing his full attention to her.  
Sitting at the foot of the bed, coughing. She looks back at him as if she knows. As if their consciousnesses are linked and she can just sense it.

Her eyelids droopy and her eyes red. She rests the pipe cutely against her cheek, mouthpiece towards him. Offering.  
Eyebrows raising, licking the lips of his dry mouth. Temptation on all fronts. He shakes his head and digs around on his nightstand for his half empty pack of cigarettes and the lighter sitting atop them. He sits up and tucks the filter of one in the corner of his mouth before setting the pack down and lighting it.

"You gonna be a stick in the mud and not smoke with me today?" Krystal asks as she drapes herself over his legs, looking up at him with those deep blue eyes. Mouthpiece of the pipe resting against her chin.

"Work today," Fox sighs, digging around the sheets for his hastily dispatched shirt. He sets his cigarette down in the ashtray on the night stand and flips the shirt outside out by the sleeves. Stuffs himself into it like a circle peg into a round hole. "Save some for me tonight," he ashes and retrieves his cigarette, taking a drag.

"No promises, stick in the mud," she winks at him and cranes her head slightly to bite the end of the pipe. "How late will you be?"

"I'd sure like you to wait up for me but I wouldn't recommend it."

She blows the smoke in his face and she laughs.  
Krystal is just as seductive as the opium and she knows it.

But, as his daddy always told him, "respect the pod. Don't be a slave." And he'd say that to himself. Really.

His fingers graze the fur on her cheek gently before he scoots out from under her. She lets gravity take her head to the bed and she pouts and whines.  
Locating his discarded trousers he steps into them and pulls his pants up both legs by the waistband and fashions them over his shapely behind. You admire it from behind the safety of your computer screen, and feel slightly titillated.

Fox McCloud is a strong character and you identify with him a lotta bit of a little bit. Or maybe just a little bit of a lotta bit.  
Unless you're female, in which societal gender roles dictate you identify with Krystal, who has a very strong character built on the foundations of loving and flirting with Fox McCloud. They shared an awkward moment, once, that's canon.  
He leans over to kiss her and it's very passionate. You decide this is your OTP if you haven't already and no other pairings are allowed.

He retrieves his cigarette from the ashcan and relights it. Taking in a long pull and blowing it back at her. "You behave," he says, winking at her.  
"Don't you tell me what to do, Fox." She winks back.

He throws his coat over his shoulder and stuffs his arms into it cleanly. He adjusts his collar and is ready to face the evening. 

* * *

Fox lives in the back of an opium den and massage parlor fronted by a bar.  
He liked to keep his vices close to him as possible.

One of the girls passes him in front of the bar with a tray of freshly refilled glasses and pipes and winks.  
He'll be seeing her in the early bottom of the morning if Krystal wasn't up to be sure.

Sitting at the bar, he orders himself a double whiskey on ice. When it arrives, he drains the glass far more quickly than it took to fetch and orders another one. Gotta get his head straight for the evening at hand.

"Working tonight, Fox?" the bartender asks, setting down Fox's second glass of whiskey and ice.

Fox nods in response. He doesn't remember the bartender's name despite it being present on his chest. Written on his nametag. Right in front of his face.

The glass nurses him, and he takes his time with this one. Enjoying it.

"Well, uh, good luck out there, eh?"

"Thanks." Ice crunching between his molars. He snaps and points at the ashtrays.

Without hesitating, the bartender, whose name is Jeffrey, sets one delicately in front of him. He nods in approval and Fox dismisses this by ignoring him.  
He fishes around in his inner jacket pocket and pulls out his pack, stuffing a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

He's fishing in his side pocket when he notices the bartender has offered him a lit match. He grumbles quietly to himself as he accepts the convenience and leans in to inhale through the unlit cigarette, lighting it.

Noticing a flash in the bartender's eyes that he's struck by, he leans back and plucks the cigarette from his mouth with the two index fingers on his left hand. He imagines fucking the bartender into his falling pile of glasses and bottles while the bartender screams for more. Smoke jets out his nostrils as if he were some sort of dragon as he grimaces at himself. Fox is very straight, you see, and these thoughts of homosexuality and debauchery were an unwanted extension of his psyche.

"Did you have that dream again, Fox?"

"That dream where I was a videogame? Yes. I had that. Dream."

The bartender's voice would sound like god to Fox if that wasn't indeed the sound of his own.

"The dream where you killed Wolf." The bartenders voices say. Suddenly he has several of them that speak and whisper simultaneously. "When are you going to make that a reality?"

"I'm working on it."

"Drinking, fucking and smoking opium. Chasing small time crooks for chump change. You've accomplished nothing. You are nothing."

Fox's eyes widen and then narrow. Among the many voices of the bartender, he recognizes his father.  
"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"You aint got no worth ethic, boy," he says, daddy's voice dominating. Dominating. "Looks like I gotta teach you another lesson."

Fox drains his glass and hurls it into the bartender's face. He starts screaming as blood leaks from the cracks in his hands covering his face. His muffled screams calling the attention of the coherent people in the lounge. He's screaming in his normal voice, just the one.  
He wonders how bad the damage is when he drops a few hundred credits on the bar and walks out. 

* * *

"Looks like he's headed for the convenience store on the corner," Fox says discretely into his radio.  
Keeping his head down and his target in the corner of his eye.

"Gryndletyns?" The high pitched voice comes through the other end. Slippy.

"That's the one."

"Falco, what's your 20?"

"Across the street," the bird chirps in Fox's ear. "Headed inside. Towards the magazine rack, to the back left of the store."

"Roger, close in," Slippy says.

By the time Fox makes it to the door, Falco's already into position. Discretely nod at one another behind the target's back.

Kirk Krunn, wanted dead or alive for armed robbery. Probably on the job, Fox muses to himself. Best hang back and watch the fireworks.

Fox finds his reflection in the drink cooler in the back. His eyes move from himself to Kirk.  
Glancing quickly to his left at Falco pretending to read a magazine. His back to the rack.

Meandering slowly to the left, pretending to be trying to make a decision.  
Sure enough, it's showtime. Guy pulls a knife to the throat of the guy between him and the register. Previously digging through his wallet, his eyes pop open wide and he drops it on the counter and raises his hands.  
He knows exactly what's happening to him. The cashier seems jarred, confused.

"M-my wallet's on the counter - please take it."

"Empty the register," the voice growls. Peeking over the dog's shoulder.

"Wh-what?!" the dog barks.

"Not you," Kirk says. He nods at the cashier and sets a bag on the counter. "You. Empty the register. And his wallet. And yours. Or he dies."

The cashier catches on and pushes some buttons to open the register. Trembling.  
Enough. Fox draws his army issued 1911 and thumbs the safety off. Cocked and unlocked.

He points and aims for his head. Locked on.  
Speak.

"Hey dirtbag."

Kirk is a filthy alleycat. Fox has no respect for such ilk. No work ethic. No inherent value. Just a thick, smelly slime on the city.  
Coating Corneria with filth.

A moment of silence. The target doesn't move. "I have a knife to this man's throat. His life is in your hands, citizen."

"Yeah, yeah," he laughs. "You go ahead and kill that mutt. You'll just die with him."

"You think I'm bluffing?"

"You heard me, scat cat. I don't give a fuck if you are. There are two ways we can do this."

Before Fox is done talking Kirk guides the dog's neck around with him by the blade, facing Fox. The sudden movement jolts Fox's trigger finger into action, unloading all nine rounds into the innocent dog's torso at a tight grouping as casings eject from the weapon and rain down on him.  
Bouncing off his head.

Kirk ducks down behind his shield and draws the shotgun in his coat.

Thumb on the release.  
The empty magazine bounces off the tile floor while Fox fishes in his jacket for another one.

Kirk kicks over the body and fires the shotgun before racking it and aiming it again.  
Blast to the chest sends Fox backwards into the drink cooler.  
Glass shattering under his weight, beer and shards raining down on him.

As the empty shell bounces and rolls into place under a shelf Kirk takes a step forward, presumably to make sure Fox is dead. A single shot from his left caves in the side of his head and face as he drops to the floor. Blood sprays across the cashier's face. He screams.  
Falco holsters his weapon.  
Fox sits up in a mess of cracking and falling glass and gets up. He shakes it off. One of his ribs is broken from the impact, but if there's one thing his daddy taught him, it was to ignore pain. So it's not something he's ever aware of.

"Good thing you brought me along, eh? I had to bail you out of another one."

"You didn't bail out shit, Falco, shut the fuck up. I would have killed his ass after I got up."

"Sure, sure," he snickers. "You're making good use of that vest, eh? Getting shot all the time."

"Makes it more of a sport. Fucking hell, Falco, you blew half his goddamn face off."

"Saving your worthless life," Falco mutters, holstering his .357 again. Didn't he already holster it?

Fox stuffs the magazine into the pistol and releases the slide. Thumbs the hammer back and switches the safety on.  
Cocked and locked. Semper Fidelis.  
He holsters it in the back of his pants behind his jacket and brushes excess shards and bits of glass off his coat and out of his fur.

"If they don't accept this, you personally owe me my cut of the bounty."

"Like hell," Falco laughs.

"Slip, send for cleanup," Fox tells the radio. "Target acquired dead. Over and out."

"Roger," the radio tells Fox.

He cuts communication and picks up the empty magazine and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. He notices that the cashier is still screaming, sobbing. Cowering behind the counter like a filthy, useless animal.

No work ethic.  
No ambition.  
No spine.

So pathetic, the population of this wretched planet at large.

Fox rolls his eyes and waves to the cashier before leaving the convenience store and disappearing into the crowd on the sidewalk. 

* * *

"Hey mister!"

Fox ignores him. Turns down the alleyway. "Mister!"

The little fuck touches his shoulder. Probably still a teenager.  
Fox glares at him. Not stopping.  
Young wolf. Similar to him in color.

"I thought you looked familiar!" He says excitedly. "You're Star Fox!"

Fox grits his teeth.  
He hates being recognized.

Sighing, he stops to face the kid. Looks down into his eyes full of wonder.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Jeffrey!" the kid says, excited. A little enthusiastic for his age, Fox muses. Why does that fucking name sound familiar?  
"Jeffrey, huh?" He looks around. Situational awareness is key. "Do you have a family, Jeffrey?"  
"I do!"  
"That's good," Fox says, nodding at him. "That's real good, Jeffrey. Do you know why I do what I do, Jeffrey?"  
Jeffrey shakes his head no. He doesn't say anything, it's a physical response. When you add useless sentences like that to your writing, IE "filler", it fleshes out the characters more and makes for a more interesting read.  
"I do it for people like your family, Jeffrey. So they can live on to mourn you another day."  
Jeffrey is visibly confused. "Wh-what?"  
"Why the fuck does your name sound so fucking familiar?"

Fox punches him in the nose and breaks it. His face bleeds. Fox hits him again.

"Jeffrey, was it?"

"HELP!" the kid cries out when Fox grabs him by the face and slams his head into the brick wall behind him, pinning him there. He yelps out in pain.

"If you say one more word," Fox says, licking his lips, "I'm going to cut your tongue out."

"P-please," he's crying. He's scared. "Please, I'm sorry, please let me go-"

Fox tsk tsk tsks at him. "What did I say, Jeffrey? Now you gotta lose your tongue."

Jeffrey sobs and clenches his jaw as hard as he can.

"Now, Jeffrey, open up or I'm coming in." 

* * *

The slurping and lapping from under the sheets is lost on Fox as the girl continues tonguing his balls.

Fox is somewhere else, spiritually and sexually. 

* * *

Prying open his lips with the hand he steadies his head against the brick wall, he draws his bootknife from his boot with wetting anticipation.  
In the alley way, there are two trashcans and a dumpster, and a homeless owl asleep in a pool of his own piss and the gasoline he was drinking. His name is Edward Timmels, and in the morning he would lament the fact that he spilled half his gas before finding another corpse. That's a fairly common occurrence around these parts, so mostly he'll just be happy the wallet and cheap watch hadn't been stolen off his dead body.  
The distant, blocked streetlight makes the lighting of the event rather dire.

This is good writing.

Fox at first tries digging the knifetip slowly into Jeffrey's gums but miscalculates and comes to a stop at the roots of his upper teeth.  
The knife slicing his gums and scraping against his teethbones. There's a bird overhead and somewhere in the city, several people are masturbating.

He sighs and starts chiseling away at his teeth and gums, cracking them at the roots and down the center and spraying himself in the right eye with blood.  
He gets angry and he scoops out the poor runt's teeth fragments as he tears the flesh from the top of his jaw. More screaming. More blood.

In the present, he's about ready to cum. 

* * *

It's the present, and as promise, he cums hard from having his ballsack licked while thinking about that kid he killed earlier that late morning.  
He cums and he screams loudly, jarring Krystal from her peaceful slumber.

"Fox, what the fuck, are you okay?"

She blinks her vision into focus, unsure for a moment of what's happening.

"Nothing baby, go back to sleep."

"What the fuck is that?"

"What the fuck is what? Go back to sleep."

"Please don't tell me you're stupid enough to have some bitch give you a blowjob in our bed while I'm fucking sleeping in it."

"It's not a blowjob, Candiii is tonguing my balls and asshole. Right, Candiii?"

A nod from under the sheets, more slurping and suckling noises.

"You've got a lot of fucking nerve, you piece of shit," Krystal says, getting up and getting dressed. "You stupid fucking piece of shit."

"Don't call me stupid you goddamn whore."

"Don't call me a whore you goddamn pig!"

"Don't call me a pig you goddamn whore!"

"Is that all you got? Fucking idiot. Miserable piece of shit. Asshole!"

"Whore," Fox says, shaking his head, his eyes closed, disappointed in her for being such a whore.

"You're lucky I'm canonically required to be together with you forever you fucking asshole, or I'd be leaving permanently instead of just causing a scene."

"Cause your fucking scene outside, whore. I'm busy here."

She throws many things at him. The remote. Empty cans. A single nipple clamp (she couldn't find the other one[it's under the loveseat at the end of the bed]), handfuls of clothes, shirts, pants. Underwear. A half empty two liter of cola. An ashtray. That one would have really hurt if she acknowledged pain. She'll blow off some steam and need some opium and she'll be back. She always comes back. She's canonically obligated. She doesn't do butt stuff but Candiii does so it's okay. In the room there are clothes everywhere, piled on the floor with trash she has to step over to storm out. On the nightstand is an ashtray and a box of tissues Fox uses to wipe down his loads and toss in the corner. The bed is up against the wall longways facing a flatscreen Tv from the side. Across from the Tv directly is a loveseat covered with clothes and trash. Under the loveseat is a single nipple clamp, a strap on dildo, food wrappers, a couple of dirty plates and a sock that's been fungus damaged beyond repair.

Muffled, from under the sheets: "Should I leave?"

"Nawh," Fox says, guiding her head back to his genitals with her hand. She's excited about this, as if she were catching a fish. "Keep doing what your doing."

More licking and wet smacking as Fox zones out in silence. He thinks about forcing that knife through the young wolf's tongue and through the bottom of his mouth. Watching him choke on his own blood and teeth. Tongue falling out of his fucking face. He gets hard again. On the Tv is an infomercial about a lunchbox that heats up your food and a self-lubricating soaprag. Behind him, framed and hanging from his wall over the head of his bed is the October 9595 centerfold of Foxxy Bulges magazine, featuring James McCloud's nuts hanging out of the thin of his thong.  
It's the only picture of his daddy he has left. 

* * *

cornwallace - 2018


	3. The hand mistress

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _  
The hand mistresss

* * *

"Please, step onto the messmat."  
Her voice is as dry and frail as her wrinkled old skin and her weathered, fragile bones. Furless cat guides him gently by his back onto the shower curtain liner she has draped over the floor in front of him.

Her gnarled hand reaches around his waist to the front of his pants. She rubs around his crotch, trying to locate his dick through his pants. It's not hard, but it's plump and she can feel its warmth in her poorly circulated, ice cold hands.

"There you are," her purrs are about as soothing as an active lawnmower being stuffed through a microphone with your ear up to the speaker.  
Fox's erections are very specific and this one is not understood by him. He's in a legitimately in a state of unease, something he's covered up so hard in general manliness that he can't remember the last time he experienced this internal sensation. He doesn't like it.

He can feel her erection grinding between his buttcheeks. Hotdogging through several layers of cloth. He wants to say something, but something about her magic took away his right to Free Speech™. It is a dark time, indeed.

A finger and a thumb grasp tightly onto the zipper of his pants. She whispers into his ear, standing on her toes.

"Are you sexually attracted to dead things?"

"No."

"A lie," she giggles. "The boundaries of trust have been established. Do you like your job?"

"Yes," Fox says, almost like a robot. He has become a being acting upon true instinct.

"Of course you do," she says, "you get to make plenty of those corpses yourself, do you knot?"

Fox tries to understand the nuances of her inflection but he fails to. He also tries to appreciate the choice of spelling she chose to siphon from the ether and spit into his brain. He fails at this as well.  
Each tooth on the front of his pants is being wrenched free from its station one at a time like his mind unraveling. He's never been so turned on. Not like this.

"Wah," is all that manages to escape from his trembling lips, more of an escaped emotion than a sentiment or a message he's trying to convey.  
Her ice cold hand on his back pushes him forward slightly, bending him over as she traces her long middle fingernail down his back, causing him to shudder. Her nail length is natural, not gussied up or painted like some sort of accessory or fashion statement. Yellow with jaundice and just as gnarled as the rest of her, her nails hook the back of his waistband as her other hand grinds against his lap. His pants and underwear fall to the floor like a gunned down pigeon in the thralls of the great avian war.  
Nails grazing the fur up his back, under his shirt. Gently bending him over more as her ice cold fingers wrap his throbbing member. Sucking the warmth from its veins like a fresh McDonald's milkshake through a striped straw - slowly but Shirley.

"Ease your mind just as gently as I ease my finger into your rectum. Do you consent to this?"

A fervent nod. A desperate gasp. A wanton whine.

"Very well. Your purpose shall soon be known to you, though perhaps not fully understood."  
She hocks as snot rips through her sinuses like a chump cranks up a chopper. As loud as the loudest Harley Davidson on The Planet of Semper Fidelis, Origin of War™. A splat on the palm of her hand like Gak™ slammed hard against the wet pavement and wet like Niagara Falls.

The nail on her middle finger defies physics as she coats it and her finger in the mucus from her palm and presses it gently against his quivering opening.  
It enters him not as a nail with its gnarled edges and its rectally dangerous form - but as a solid, blunt object. There's only a small amount of discomfort and shock as she slowly and gracefully enters him - perhaps it's mental, he thinks to himself. A feeling he could easily get used to. At a snail's pace, his body wraps becomingly around her appendage. A wanton whimper escapes his lips as a comforting shush escapes hers in close proximity to his ear, causing it to twitch. The song Easy Way Out by Low Roar playing in the distance, a complacency washes over him. His existence is nothing more than just that in his eyes for the first time as he understands it.

Finally, he can feel the blunt instrument of her appendage pressing gently against his prostate and a pressure begins to build within him.  
Unwittingly, he does kegel exercises against her knuckle. Knit, purl. Knit, knit, purl.

His eyes pop open wide and his eyes dilate.  
Fox shuts them tightly and when he opens them again, he's in the opium den with a smoking pipe in his hand and a glass of whiskey on the table in front of him. Melting ice restructuring itself into a grey cloud at the top of the beverage.  
Across from him sits the most gorgeous woman he's ever seen, unbeknownst to him, a younger hand mistress. She winks at him through exotic eyeshadow and smirks at him through crimson lipstick. Winking, she sips her own drink.

In Fox's shallow eye, he does not recognize her aura coating her like a calm beast aflame. All is known when she speaks, however.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"I am the call of desire," she says, producing a tarot deck from beneath the table and shuffling it casually. "The nature of your destiny awaits you. Art thou ready?"

"Yes."

The Hierophant.  
The Tower.  
The Fool.  
Death.

An energy leaves him as his future vanishes before his eyes. She gestures over the space on the table where his destiny once was and grabs her drink. She winks at him again and he takes a sip.

He looks down at his drink and his whiskey and water and melting ice has become a human breast that grows rather organically from the cold metal table.  
Fox is confused. He looks up at her smirking face.

"What do you want?" Her words paradoxically as abrasive as nails on a chalkboard but as soothing as his own mother's voice heard from the womb. He moans out loud. "Blink," she says.

He does. His father scowling inhabits her space in his situational awareness. He is alarmed.

"What the hell you doin', boy," his gruff voice shreds away at his soul, shavings littering the floor of the opium den and on the seat of the bench in the booth in which he sits.

The pressure inside of him continues to build.

"Didn't I tell you to make somethin' of yourself?" his dad demands, angrily. He's unbuckling his belt to assault him with it. "Didn't I tell you to be a worthy successor to my legacy?!"

Fox contemplates the importance of his own legacy desperately as he turns his full attention to the breast on the table and suckles out the comforting milk of every mother.  
He begins crying, crying into the nipple as he understands a rope ladder descending into a woodchipper.

I wanna feel something again memorable.  
I wanna feel something again memorable.

Daddy snaps his leather belt against itself and the sound sends a jolt up Fox's spine, like Zeus sent a lightning bolt up anyone's ass who he caught fucking his wife.  
Fox's hair on end, he moans louder than he's ever moaned. The bench beneath him gone, as he instinctively bends over the table and shouts muffled groans into the jiggling titty from which he derives his soul's nourishment.

"Pants down," his daddy says, and he always does what his daddy says. Always.  
Whap! A muffled squeal into the boobie of nurture™ as Fox endures the force of layers of leather belt against his furry ass, his tail twitching excitedly all the way up to the dipstick like whiplash on a good old fashioned coil of rope.

"Why aint you been me, boy?"  
WHAP!  
"I'm sorry daddy."  
WHAP!  
"After all I done for you!"  
WHAP!  
"I'm sorry daddy!"  
WHAP!  
"Cum fer me, boy," his fantasy daddy tells him.  
WHAP!  
Harder than ever before, Fox starts screaming. He closes his eyes tightly as pearly ropes ejaculate from his quivering rod. His orgasm is beyond anything he ever imagined.

Fox opens his eyes and he's in the gentle elderly care of the hand mistress. He quivers and shudders, but even in his awkward position, she holds him steady.  
She gazes over his shoulder at his ejaculate's pattern over her plastic messmat.

"Ah, yes. Your secretions are as jaundiced as my eyes and my fingernails. You'll probably die soon. Also, your semen is burning a hole in my messmat. To cover damages I'll need at least five thousand Star Fox Dollars™."

Fox begins to cry as his fortitude begins to crumble. He's learned today far more about himself than he'll ever acknowledge. He turns around and sobs into her sagging breast, more beautiful than he'd previously conceived or understood.  
He feels a warmth in his existence he doesn't remember, not a thing he's felt since he was an infant.

His ears pin back and twitch as she whispers comforting shushes into them while patting his trembling back.

When he opens his eyes again he's in bed next to a sleeping Krystal, desperate for a fulfillment he refuses to acknowledge or understand.  
Fox rolls over towards her, facing her, and wraps his arms around her neck as he begins to cry into her shoulder. Cry for the first time in actual decades.

She's still asleep, and she pushes him away.

He whines and looks up to his daddy. But his daddy, eyes as dead as ever, his daddy looks forward to the other side of the room. Perhaps through that, perhaps through to something he'll never understand. Not in this lifetime.

His shuffled playlist moves onto the next track. One Week by Barenaked Ladies plays and Fox sobs more audibly in his own voice than he ever has before.

* * *

cornwallace - 2018


	4. The ape

_ _ _ _ _  
The ape 

* * *

Beginning of the 4th quarter of winter on this part of this planet.  
Still a stretch from spring. Doesn't snow out here, but the tree is about as bare as a roundhead's ass on the day it's born.  
Sun is in and out like an incel before he nuts in the sock he's wearing to the reddit con later while looking at pictures of dead and battered women. That is to say, quickly. 

* * *

Barren desert.  
Found refuge under a single barren tree, adjusting position for hours to stay under the shade.  
It's been hours since arrival. Fatigue sets in. Not just physical, but mental. Fox fancies himself above that, however. And so do you.  
Half a click down the way is backup. Falco. That means he's north of even Fox. Communication via military grade earpiece. The kind they use in the CIA, because that's badass.

Hunting.  
10\. 9. 8. and he's breaking away.  
Fox is all dressed up and he's ready to play.  
Stealth is the name of the game, so naturally Fox opted for the purple power armor. I know what you're thinking, purple isn't a good camouflage in the desert. However, Fox has Metal Gear Solid 4 technology - chameleon power armor. If he were to wear his helmet, he'd be completely invisible right now, but he doesn't think he looks cool enough with the helmet on, and his vanity wins out every single time, so he currently resembles a floating head next to a tree. The helmet would improve his vision, aiming, hand/eye coordination along with granting him thermal, night and infared vision capabilities. But Fox wants you to see his face. You. Want to see Fox's face.  
Fox's fur mats with sweat underneath the tight, uncomfortable suit. He didn't even bother paying attention to how long it took him to put on, god only knows. Taking it off will be the most relief you or Fox has ever experienced.

Tools of the day; a bolt-action rifle with an old-fashioned model ocular enhancement, or scope, for the layman. A pistol chambered for ten-millimeter rounds, because ten is more than nine and that makes it more badass. Carbon fiber knife filled with mercury for balance dynamics - extra sharp. Could cut through the nuts of a dolemite lobster.

Fox lays on his belly, drumming on a root and staring off into space. He justifies his decisions in his head as he waits.  
Helmets are for queers, he thinks to himself, licking his dried lips, chapping them further. Queers aren't good for nothin' but taking out yer insecurities on. At least that's what daddy always said. And if what daddy said was ever questioned, the belt would be got. And when the belt would be got, Fox's ass would be got. He can feel the sting as he considers it, and it makes him bite down on his lip as the meager beginnings of an erection surface within his loins.

This makes Fox uncomfortable. He tries to stop thinking about it.

To the north, a monstrosity. A city assimilated.  
Woven together with flesh and blood. At the center of this horrible creation is a pulsating, beating heart. Pumping this city full of fuel automatically. Off limits to anyone and every thing that isn't assimilated.  
You could call it a home, but it's really a prison. Impossible to break free from, it quite literally becomes a part of you, assimilates you. All thought redirected to the mastercomputer. You become it. Your thoughts, your decisions, your every-day life.  
Theoretical immortality, but you become a slave.  
A scream as you enter, and nothing more is heard of your existence as an individual.  
Officers and mercenaries contracted to patrol the perimeters of the city to keep up appearances. And contracted means you can see the veins pulsating the meat strings attached to their very god if you get close enough.  
Resistance was futile, and effortless indeed was the growth of its tendrils across the once thriving city.  
The real beast is the city itself - but not the target. 

* * *

Stars slapped across the sky like his father would his drunk mother, galaxies spilled like her drink when examined in slow motion.  
A frozen display of true horror.  
Fox loads and unloads his rifle. Fox reloads his rifle.  
Fox blows a raspberry. He's bored.  
Ninety caliber rounds, which means that sum'bitch can kill anything. Heavily armored and reinforced vehicles melt like Krystal's panties when I helicopter my dick by gyrating my hips like Elvis, only faster and more badass.  
The magazine alone would be too heavy for most, despite the fact it only contains four rounds, but Fox fancies himself an elite soldier, and so do you. (consider him that [an elite soldier]).  
"Falco how's our six?" My voice is only audible to one bird, one big bird named Falco, the Louise to my Thelma.

"Sixy."  
Fox sighs a bunch of times, cartoonishly. He peers through the ocular enhancement on the rifle. Looks at the dirt and fantasizes about fisting an elephant.  
Then he looks back through the ocular enhancement device.  
Fox groans. "Nothing yet?"

Falco smirks, despite the physics of a beak. Fox drums on the root more, then he drums on his gun. Impatiently."  
"I think I spotted a tumbleweed but it disappeared behind a rock." Falco says.  
Did I mention this communication technology was used by the CIA? Because that's actually a lie, Fox himself designed this communications device off the kind the CIA used and made it even better than every radio or communication device in circulation, on or off the market.

More awkward sighing from Fox as he taps the butt of his gun for seemingly no reason, tapping speed gaining momentum.  
Another raspberry from Fox's fleshy and furry lips.

"How professional," Falco says. Quietly yawning as his beak parts like a trembling pair of scissors. "Your childish whining isn't bringing us any closer to the target, nor the target any closer to us."

"Blow me." A joke to infuriate Falco, because both he and I and Fox know that oral sex from a bird is like having your genitals mashed up against a gigantic hollow pair of scissors, and having your genitals poked by a woefully enlarged pipecleaner. "I'm starting to feel as though this contract is a joke."

"Quit being such a bitchgirlwoman," he says, so groggy from his early morning arrival that he can't even hammer his sexism down. Like every baby who isn't as cool as me, he's cranky "Cunt," he says, arbitrarily. "You're delusional like a womangirl. A female lady without any boyparts. Per usual. Freaking out all the time about her nails and the blood leaking from her vagina. Like she could ever know what getting kicked in the balls is like. Just be glad everybody hates Big, and he isn't part of our canon, so they won't bitch about it in the reviews."

Big.  
The target is a fat cat fatcat from Mobius named Big.  
Rich beyond his own overweight imagination. Small time Mobian gangster edging his way into the galactic big time. A fool, setting himself up for assimilation. He doesn't even know it.  
Big probably doesn't know understand the nightmare he's meant to stroll blindly into. Fox is here to prevent his eventual assimilation. Tipped off by a source who personally wanted his head,  
He's from way outside the system, which means Fox doesn't like him already. He'd probably still want him dead if he wasn't getting paid for it.

Opening up the Lylation boarders is what lets filth like the aparoids exist. Some people consider their previous, canon victory over them a success. Victory.  
Fox won't consider it a victory until their very species has been genocided off the face of the universe. Not just his system - everywhere.

But because he's on Cerinia and nobody gives a fuck about Cerinia, these filth have managed to colonize and build themselves into the system slowly and unnoticed over time.  
"Right, sure," Fox says, tracing circles around his vacuum packed cock with his right hand after rolling over to his back. His left hand stroking the rifle in a similar, sexual fashion. "But you picked this job," he jabs, a jab which he hopes will land, and does, because he's just the badass we dream he is. "Since you suck, your jobs also suck. Everything about you sucks."

He's nibbling on my cock like a fish nibbles on a worm attached to a big fucking hook, ready to rip him out of his universe and serve his innards to ignorant children.  
My whipcrack wit is enough to send him spiraling into mentally challenged mode.  
He grunts, beak mashing the filter of his cigarette into forthspilling tobacco doth of the other side. "I wouldn't suck your dick for a million credits," Falco says.  
Ha. Fox zing'd him, he thinks to himself. He'll remember this the next time he's jacking off, for sure. 

* * *

Fox doesn't wanna sound like a fucking roundhead or nothing, but he likes money.

He tries to start a conversation.  
"How old were you when your father fingered your cloaca?" a simple question. One he should be able to answer if he aint some type of queer Fox doesn't like. Spoiler, Fox doesn't like queers, and neither should you, because it's gross and also because of political indoctrination. This shields me, the author, from my latent homophobia and defends my questionable heterosexuality like a rock monster defends lava, or jewels made from lava. They love those.

"Jesus Christ, Fox, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Unloading the magazine by two, and doing party tricks with the rounds.  
Pussyass babydick,Fox would say, if it weren't for his lustful cloaca. Juggling rounds previously removed from the magazine because Fox is good at things like balance and precision. You are impressed. You like his muscles. You fantasize about your life being his, but it isn't.

Instead Fox says something like "Buhbuhbuhbuhbuh. Haha! Cry, whine! That's what you sound like, you SJW trash."

"Will you please shut the fuck up?" Falco sighs, tiredly rubbing the bridge of his beak. "I'm trying to concentrate."

"On what? Yer tumbleweed?"  
Ouch, Fox thinks to himself. Zing'd and zap'd him.  
Boredom temporarily satiated.

Falco sighs, but realistically this time, unlike Fox, who does it like he's scatting ghost music into the butthole of a Djinn.  
"On the job we're getting paid to do, you idiot." Falco blinks. He can't believe Fox is this stupid, but he is.

Negative energies rumble from within via flashbacks and thinkthoughts.  
"Don't call me an idiot you whore," Fox mumbles without really thinking about it.

"What the fuck did you just say?"  
You could say Fox is bamboozled, but I'd tell you not to say that in my fic, as I only respectable English.

"Falco," Fox grins like a Jack-O-Lantern cut with an extra wide grin and no regard for discriminatory behavior, "do you have to be so FOWL?"

"You think you're funny but you aren't." Falco's face is like the wrinkles on the middle finger joint digit after the fist has punched a brink wall.  
Open. Confused.

Fox narrows and eyes and licks his consistently chapping lips.  
"I'll leave that for the review boards to decide. You reading this shit? Please leave a review and favorite and subscribe and tell me how funny I am."  
The author of this story would like to apologize for the pandering of the protagonist.

"Don't talk to the audience, you sound like an asshole."  
If you could turn UGH! into an expression, that would be the way Falco's beak is formating in tandem with the formation of his eyes and lack of chin. That is to say a facial expression. An annoyed and confused one.

"I'll tell you what sounds like an asshole, Bigbird." Fox says, completely serious and meaning every word he says. Saying every word he means.  
Meaning his feelings and feeling his means.

"Don't call me Bigbird."  
The compound word that shouldn't be a compound word makes him angry, like a particular grouch named Oscar. Now, if Fox would to be to where he were to says uch a thing to Falco's body, it would lift, and lift it would indeed to the power status of lifting capabilities, to throw Fox from a window that t'were not currently present in this here now, quite rather, to be sure.

"Farts. Farts is the answer as to what sounds like an asshole." Fox bellychuckles and yuks his way through his own words like a barbarian through a hapless wench. "I'll take chuckles and belly-yuks for three hundo, Alex."

"Have you been smoking opium?" The canned laughter of a thousand dead audience participants echoes throughout your own ears as you ask yourself in shock and wonder how I just did that. I did it with my words, bitch. How do you like the taste of that?

"I wish," Fox said, drooling and meaning every word, even though their were only two before this sentence. He means those two extra hard before he moves onto the next one. "Would make this waiting so much easier. This is excruciating."

Falco cringes but you can't tell because of his beak and his soulless eyes.  
"It's part of the job, Fox."  
Falco makes another expression with his face that you won't be able to understand, but this time I'm not going to bother describing it because none of you assholes are paying me enough.

"Killing people," Fox says. "That should be the whole job."  
He tries to hide his premature ejaculation within his power armor from nobody while he thinks about what he did to that punk's teeth in the alley.  
Fox hides this from exactly nobody, which is exactly who is present, so you can't exactly say this effort was a failure, could you?

Falco, however, is a more logical sentient being. He thinks about things before he says them. He considers the why, the who, the what, the where and the when. And sometimes the boobies, because boobies keep you reading right? Later there will be more boobies. Krystal's boobies.  
"Well, it isn't. Sometimes you gotta wait for the right time to kill someone. It's not like you could do your job even if that's all it was."

"Please," Fox scoffs. "Can you beat my high score of 2,049?"  
It was all he had to say to bring an avalanche of turds down on Falco's stupid, dumb head.

"What does that even mean?" Falco blinks like a lighthouse light blinks from the distance when you're out to sea, only that isn't the lighthouse blinking per se, just a change in perspective from the light's point of view, facing one way and then facing that way. Not the way it faced before, a new one. Makes it look like it isn't blinking, like Falco. But it isn't. Like Falco.

"Yeah, bitch. Didn't think so."  
Fox is sexually satisfied and it's obvious. He didn't think about a single thing while he was cumming into his skintight power armor.

"What the fuck does that even mean?"  
Falco's eyes, specifically his irises, are like camera shutters. They expand and contract seemingly arbitrarily to the layman.

"Semper Fidelis, Bigbird." Fox's god sings more freedom upon his silver platter. "Semper Fidelis."

"Ugh," Falco says, deciding not to properly respond. Fox doesn't deserve the sustenance.  
This is the nature of communication.  
"Oh shit," Falco says, cutting off his own queen drama. "Target approaching from south road. Can you hit 'em like you quit 'em?"

"Negatory, slybeak, or any other codenames your cloaca gets wet for. I don't think about filling it with my knot, because I'm a heterosexual foxbeast with a crystalized love interest in Krystal. Hope I can white knight her out of this shit before she even realizes she's not involved in it, baby."

And before Falco can rationally respond to that, Fox's ambiguously floating head is bouncing along the horizon.  
"Useless," Falco says. "Just as fucking useless as you always are." 

* * *

Patience wears thin on the Big partyvan.

Creeps like a highschool loser on the prowl for a date. Not like me, the author, I got plenty of dates in highschool, and am currently studying to be a game designer, so all you barely-of-age bitches should want my nuts.  
Study our mark through ocular enhancement. It is what it is. Blurring fur and ass blotting its way across the frame like an oddly shaped Rorschach.

Big is a big cat, a tall cat and a fat cat fatcat.  
He appears as though he would tower above Fox, and he would. His body looks like a pile of steaks wrapped in the sheets of god. Shaved head, a pink spot of scalp beckoning the worst of humanity through the top of his head.  
He's completely oblivious to his impending doom either way, like some kind of gay turtle baby on his way back to the ocean. I've never sucked dick and I'm not a fan of it, I promise. I mean, uh, Fox has never sucked dick and he isn't a fan of it, either. I read this in the official nintendo Star Fox 64 forum.

The familiar cock of a weapon enthralls my ear canal like the tease of a penis against the cloaca of one familiar bird all of us are familiar with.  
A shiver delivers a disruption down Fox's spine as he lines up his shot and fires.

A sad and gradient net fizzles out with bad writing and so does another bullet against the badguy's invisible shield.  
Fox hears the familiar sound of a round getting locked into a barrel by his partner as his partner Falco pretends he can do what Fox couldn't.  
Fox already knows he'll fail. It's how he's wired to know things. That makes him really badass, and you grow even fonder of him because of this.  
"Ready, aim," and his radio cuts off.

Two seconds. Gunfire. The boom strikes the hills like lightning followed by thunder. It edges to the outskirts of the galaxy.  
Two heads explode. One from his, one from his. Despite his reported miss earlier, his advancement in your likeability is considerably well taken care of. His knowledge not to end a sentence in a preposition because I'm a goddamn writer, come look at my 3D models and listen to Linkin Park with me.

Nothing. God has abandoned this murder, and it's left to me and the world's smelliest cloaca to clean up after that.  
Magic net. Go fuck yourself.  
Radio static, despite this being the best communicator known to sentient beings ever. Must knot know how to use it. ;O  
"Fire!" he exclaims, unceremoniously inside of my own method of being.

Fire. Eject empty cartridge. Cock.  
Almost like we're twinkies, or even Ding Dongs. Two similar pastries wrapped in a plastic container together. Almost.  
He's off time, which makes him weaker.  
Again my slug is slugged before it should be slugged. Like god is hugging this chump. I shoot Froggy off his shoulder to prove my dominance over Falco, but I can't seem to get my 360noscopeheadshot. So I pee in my powerarmor pee reserves underpants and question my influence on these chumps. 

* * *

Child's play.  
Stand up and he spots my floating head and leaking pee immediately.  
Scoff. He's about a hundred miles ahead and he's only spotting me secondarily, not like me on him with my military advantage.  
Fox's options are kill him with the sniper rifle, or be way more badass and charge him with the knife.

So he do that. Think about his options. Think about his options with him, why don't you? I mean you, the reader. Wouldn't it be like, way more badass if he charged him with a knife than it would if he shot him from a distance? Think about it.  
He's gonna do that.

So Fox changes the settings in his start menu and he makes his way for that fatcat fat cat and it turns out he's even bigger than he could have ever imagined.

7\. 6. 5. 4. and I'm all over you.

A spring in Fox's step as he leaps his way towards reinforcement of public badassery. Think about it. Fox stabbing this chump with a knife a bunch of times is way cooler than sniping him, don't you think? I'd imagine you'd think, but you're a fan of Star Fox fanfiction, so I'll explain this to you very carefully.

The mercury in his knife make it cooler in several ways, and more deadly. The shape of his knife means death, despite the fact that most knives do that, the weight distribution plus the shape of it means immediate death, and permanently.

Fox crouches while he's running, which is bizarre looking, and doesn't do anything for his attack.

Counting three, two, one, Fox is having fun.

Big is probably masturbating, because there's no other way he was this clueless that he was about to die unless the person attacking him was Fox McCloud.  
Which it was.

His eye catches the glinting knife drawn from Fox's boot in the early morning sunrise.

Enclosing.

Unsure of what to do next. Eyes meeting eyes, groins flexing unimaginably.

Enclosing.

Death is coming and all he can do is react to that like a man and not a woman baby child girl which Fox as a protagonist holds beneath him on the evolutionary line.

Enclosing.

Fox gets a good look into the whites of his eyes, which turns him on, because he's pretty sure this person will be dead soon and the whites of a dead person's eyes turn him on arbitrarily!

Big finally reacts, finally, by dual wielding machineguns he fires off into random directions. It's like a war dance, it's supposed to scare Fox.  
But Fox isn't scared. He's just more and more pissed off as he somersaults through the air like a blur of death followed by a twitchy tail.

Enclosed.

Eye contact. Distance closes. His readiness meets Fox's pure abrupt protagonist power, and smacks him in the face with it.  
Fox tumbles to a quiet place within his own mind and a crack cuts through the sky as a million caliber bullet fired by Falco tears his pathetic skull apart and rips his existence from this general plane.

There is no fear, Fox tells himself, gnawing on his own tongue. Only dicks and cloacas, and that's a battle Fox tells himself he will never lose. 

* * *

Like an ant on a house, you could say to describe Fox climbing up Big. Monstrous in size, crushing just about everything in his path, including the car he rides.  
The dimensions change, get bigger and bigger as Fox approaches.  
Fox leaps past him and delivers the knife to his grandma - his grandma is dead which means he delivers his knife to a ghost that doesn't get cut, because ghosts don't get cut by regular every day ordinary blades despite the fact that Fox's blade was way more badass than ordinary.  
Parry. Sparks fly, because that's good description. Both of us sent reeling. Do a barrel roll around to his other side.  
Whoopsie.  
Foot meets chest as Fox is sent flying across the map with little to no recourse.  
Armor absorbing damage, but damage being absorbed by armor, if you know what I mean. Pussy stuff.

Fox bites his tongue. He's ready to fuck this fat bitch to death and not call it rape. It's his turn now - a windbag for punishment, a sigh escapes Fox. It's completely heterosexual and so am I and so are you, right? People aren't judging us, right?

Leap. Two kicks. Like drumming on a waterbed, Fox's attacks ripple throughout Big's body like nothing.  
A whack, a crunch, a dodge and a handful of indecencies.  
Big grabs Fox's leg and slams him back and forth into the ground.  
Fox writhes around in pain and fires off a few warning shots.  
The end swings through the avalanche of pain. Fox has choices, choices I'll not be assed to discuss but he makes the correct one and lights a fart into his gasp and sets his fucking head on fire.  
It happens like an explosion that you're not expecting. Quick, dirty and to the point.

Fox rolls completely out of the way. It's all faster than Sonic the hedgehog, or even Jaleel White's career.  
Fox gambles on his protagonisms and jabs the knife here and there. And Big squirts blood like a weak Mobian should. Fox maintains his grip on the knife and brings it down from the center of his throat to his sternum, cutting through his ribbed cage like a human car through an elaborate set of dominoes.  
Fox's ribs break and he struggles to breathe when Big punches him in the sternum and he falls to the ground.

With Big upon him a thunderous roar cracks the dark skies and Big's head implodes like a watermelon at the mercy of Ghallagher's hammer. And that's how he dies. That's how Big dies. From one of Falco's stray bullets.  
For the first and last time, Big falls forever, through his meat prison and into the infinite. And beyond that - forever. 

* * *

All in a day's work.  
Fox had to cut Big's head off to prove he did it, even though he didn't.  
Many corpses were left, many dogtags were snagged. Warcrimes are cool. Fox is cool. You visualizing yourself in Fox's position is cool.

And the tale begins. 

* * *

Fox's eyes rolled back in his head roll forward to focus on his investor.  
"Fox I need you off the books," Pepper says to say and says.

Fox shakes off his fantasies and his accomplishments. "What you need boo?"

"The ape from Star Wolf," he says, chewing on chaw and spitting it. "I need you to fuck that asshole in his hindquarters and slap him permanently away from making progress in life. Then I need you to bring him to me."

"Sounds sketch," Fox says, examining the folds of his penis. "I'd like to lick this labia before tonguing the clitoris if you know what I mean."

The dog flashed his fang as his eyes sparkled. "You did a good job last time for me. But this is different. I need you to kill Andrew Oikonny, and I need you to prove it. This doesn't govern my nuggets, just my nuggets. It governs yours, and I need you to respect that, governor."

"You'd be remissed by a lack of consent if you weren't already being fucked," Fox says, busting his nut arbitrarily and with impunity.

"I'll see your nut and raise you a filthy awooooooooo," Pepper says and Fox knows he means Wolf information, or information on Star Wolf.

Suddenly it all made sense to Fox. If Andrew didn't dieA, he could be a facility for Andross to reincarnate.  
Fox didn't believe in Andross or reincarnation, but he hated apes, and he liked to watch them suffer.

So he takes the job. 

* * *

cornwallace - 2018


End file.
